


you've got a troubled soul; i've got a troubled mind

by shocked_into_shame



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Billy Needs Help, Drug Use, Hero Steve, M/M, Pre-Slash, and steve is a pure angle babe who wants to lend a helping hand, billy is a pure angle babe who needs a helping hand, help him, these boys always make me swear in prose i can't help it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-27 16:16:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14429400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shocked_into_shame/pseuds/shocked_into_shame
Summary: Steve’s started to believe that there’s got to be a reason why everything happens the way it does. There’s got to be a method to the madness that is Hawkins.And maybe there’s a reason that he’s at this party, a reason beyond himself and Hawkins and all the fake fucking people in it.That reason just might be one slumped over, drugged out of his mind Billy Hargrove.





	you've got a troubled soul; i've got a troubled mind

**Author's Note:**

> i'm back?

Midterms week is over and it seems like the entire student body of Hawkins High is crowded into this living room.

Steve doesn’t know why he keeps coming to these parties. There are a lot of reasons why he _shouldn’t_ be here, surrounded by people from his school that he doesn’t give two shits about. The unreasonably loud music, so loud that he can’t hear his damn thoughts – that’s one reason. The fact that there is definitely something other than just booze being passed around – that’s another. And, cherry on top, the fact that Nancy and Jonathan are cuddled up in the corner together – big fucking reason not to be here right now.

Lately, though, Steve’s started to believe that there’s _got_ to be a reason why everything happens the way it does. There’s got to be a method to the madness that is Hawkins.

And maybe there’s a reason that he’s at this party, a reason beyond himself and Hawkins and all the fake fucking people in it.

Or, more realistically, maybe that’s the blue curacao getting to him. If the slight pounding in his temples is any indication, he’s going to be puking florescent tomorrow.

But he’s not as fucked up as other people are getting. The kids in his class are starting to look more like zombies than they are high schoolers. These are kids that he’s known since diapers practically, and he’s surrounded by a hoard of them dancing and out of their minds. Even Nance and Jonathan have something going on behind their eyes that makes it seem they’ve been fucking around with something other than just the punch bowl.

Everyone’s so messed up, in fact, that it doesn’t seem like anyone else is noticing the slump of a person in the far corner of the room. Steve knows that brown leather jacket anywhere, knows that mass of unruly blonde curls. He sighs to himself and gives the room another glance over, and it doesn’t seem like anyone is making a move to help him out.

Steve’s been trying so damn hard lately to be a good person, and maybe, just maybe, this is that sign from the universe that he was meant to be here tonight.

He sets down his red solo cup and pushes through the crowd. Tentatively, like he’s approaching a wild animal, he crouches down beside the boy’s slumped form and places a gentle hand on his back.

“Hey, are you alright, man?”

Billy startles slightly and turns his face out of the corner toward Steve and _fuck._ This is worse than what Steve had thought. Billy’s cheeks are flushed and his eyes are glassy, and he looks at Steve like he has no idea who the hell he is. The blonde makes no move to answer him – he just stares at Steve with those wide, glazed blue eyes. It’s unnerving and it makes the little hairs on the nape of Steve’s neck stand up.

“C’mon,” he urges, grabbing Billy by the shoulders and pulling him up. He’s surprised that Billy is a dead weight, and he is pliant in Steve’s grip. Billy continues to stare at him, gaping like a dead fish, beads of sweat building up on his forehead.

“ _Steve?_ ” Billy suddenly breathes out, still staring, as Steve begins to drag him out of the party by the tops of his arms like he’s a toddler. The breathy way that Billy says his name, in this reverent, amazed sigh, catches Steve off guard. It’s like Hargrove has just realized that the face he’s been looking into has been the face of God all along or something.

“Yeah, man. It’s Steve. Let’s get you out of here.”

Steve continues to drag Billy out and struggles a bit to get him past the front doorway. No one around him seems to even notice the fact that he’s currently trying to help a guy about twice his size, a guy who everyone at school knows beat him to a fucking pulp just a month ago. Oh-fucking-well. If Steve can fight off demo-dogs, then he can help a drugged Billy Hargrove out of a house party.

Once they get out on the front lawn and cold air hits them, it seems like Billy is brought to a sudden awareness of just how messed up he is. Steve never took him as someone who shied away from anything that could help him have a good time, but whatever it is that he’s taken tonight is clearly something that he has no experience with. A shudder runs down Steve’s spine at the cold – he forgot his fucking _jacket_ and there’s no way he’s going back in that damn house– and maybe also at the thought that someone could have drugged this blonde teenager he’s starting to lose his grip on.

Billy looks up at Steve’s face, panic clear in his eyes, as his legs buckle and he sinks on his knees into the damp grass underneath them. His hands shake as he grasps at Steve’s arms tightly, blathering, “I’m going to die. I’m going to die.”

Steve shakes his head in distress and grabs at Billy’s shoulders, holding his eye contact and trying to put on his best paternal voice, despite the throbbing in his own head and the twist in his stomach. Damn blue curacao. “You are _not_ going to die, Hargrove.” That seems to appease the blonde, who dazedly gets off the ground and begins to stumble toward the street. “Get in my car, man. I’m taking you to the hospital.”

Billy whips his head around so suddenly that he sets himself off balance and falls into the grass once again. “No,” he says, shaking his head like he’s trying to clear it somehow. He reaches up and pulls at his hair, and Steve winces just looking at him. “You can’t take me there. If he finds out, he’ll kill me,” the blonde slurs, breathing heavily. “ _Please_ don’t take me there.”

Against Steve’s better judgment, he nods and wrestles Billy into his car. He knows what that fear is like – that visceral, all-encompassing fear that something is going to hurt you. He doesn’t know what it is Billy’s so afraid of, but his blue eyes look so child-like and terrified that he can’t do anything other than go along with this.

He takes a deep breath and turns on his ignition, trying to clear his head. He spares a glance over to the passenger seat, and, sure enough, Billy has reverted to that dazed, glassy look. He’s just staring ahead at the road without saying a damn thing, his body slumped over toward the window.

So many things about the current situation are idiotic – the fact that he’s driving at all, the fact that he’s taking a fucked up Billy Hargrove to his own house instead of a hospital. But Steve’s never been well-known for his intellect.

Once he’s made it to his house in one piece, he breathes a sigh of relief at the fact that there’s a note on the fridge. His parents are _not_ home, thank God, so he can drop Billy in a heap on his couch. He tries to clear his head and think – what the fuck should he do? He guesses that water is the first thing that Billy needs, and maybe he needs a bit himself.

Steve speedily retrieves water from his kitchen, trying not to leave the blonde out of his sight for longer than necessary. “Drink this,” he says once he’s returned, shoving the glass of water at Billy, but Hargrove is too fucked up to do anything with it. So, feeling like a damn nurse, Steve gently reaches out and opens Billy’s jaw and brings the cup to his lips.

The twist in his gut at the look in Billy’s eyes doesn’t quite feel like nausea. No, it feels like something else entirely. The feeling of Billy’s gaze on him this close up, the feeling of his warm, stubbly cheek under Steve’s fingertips, the look of his parted lips as he drinks – it’s all doing something to Steve, something that he can’t – or _won’t_ – place.

* * *

 

Steve startles awake and is instantly aware of the pain in his head and his back. _Fuck_ , he fell asleep on the damn living room floor. Last night comes back to him in a rush as he glances up at the couch above him, where a sound asleep Billy Hargrove is snoring lightly. Holy shit. Steve can’t quite wrap his head around the fact that Hargrove needed _his_ help last night.

Steve’s stomach growls and he needs breakfast now. He doesn’t feel like making anything fancy, so he just pads over to the kitchen on bare feet and fixes himself a bowl of cereal. Steve’s still wearing jeans and a patterned sweater, and he feels like he’s doing the walk of shame or something as he leans against the kitchen counter and eats cereal in his slept-in clothes.

He’s startled slightly as a gruff voice calls out from the living room, “What the _fuck?_ ”

Steve rushes into the living room and Billy is sitting up, his elbows resting on his knees and his head in his hands. “What the fuck am I doing here, Harrington?” he demands, his voice absolutely blown out. “And why the fuck does my head feel like it’s being put through a meat grinder?”

Steve lets out a chuckle and brushes a hand through his hair. God, it must look like a fucking mess. He doesn’t know why that matters to him right now. “Well, to make a long story short, you took something that did not agree with you last night. And when I told you I’d bring you to the hospital you begged me not to, so here we are. You’re welcome.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, what _time_ is it?” Billy suddenly asks, getting up off the couch and rushing toward the front door. Steve spares a glance at his watch and lets him know it’s just past 6. “Oh, fuck,” Hargrove clenches his teeth and bites out, grabbing his jacket where Steve had discarded it near the door. “Listen, Harrington. Don’t _ever_ pull this shit again. You hear me?” he demands, staring Steve in the eyes. Gone is the look from the night before, that reverent, adoring look that Billy had given him when he breathed out his name and drank water from his cup. It’s replaced by a cruel, cold gaze that Steve knows all to well.

“What the hell?” Steve can’t help but ask, putting himself between Billy and the door. He’s treading on thin ice here; he _knows_ it. But something about Billy’s demeanor just doesn’t seem right to him. “You needed me last night, Hargrove. You fucking told me you thought you were going to die. What was I supposed to do, just leave you there?”

“Yeah,” Billy grumbles out, pushing himself in Steve’s personal space and clenching his fist. “How the fuck am I supposed to explain to my dad where I was all fucking night? Save the hero complex bullshit, Harrington.”

Steve sighs and shakes his head, shifting the weight from his right foot to his left. “Listen, man. I just thought it’d be a better idea for you to be here and alive than at that party, slumped over in a corner and choking on your own vomit. Fuck me for giving a shit.”

Billy laughs, a wild laugh that reminds Steve of that night at the Byers’. And when Billy crowds into Steve’s space even further, pressing his big palm to Steve’s neck, he can’t help the panic that bubbles up in his stomach. And then suddenly a flash of something passes over Billy’s face and he’s pulling away from Steve like he’s been shocked, backing away slowly with his eyes wild. Steve says, gently, “I know you don’t like me very much, man. But I used to be like you, and it took a couple of good people reaching out for me to be brought back down to earth.”

Billy doesn’t grant him a response. He just scoffs and pushes past Steve, knocking him into the wall near his door as he stalks out, marching toward the street. Steve breathes out a sigh and slams the door behind him.

 

* * *

 

 

So it comes as a real fucking surprise when the next week he finds a cassette tape and a folded piece of paper in his locker.

 

_“How far that little candle throws his beams! So shines a good deed in a weary world.”_

_A mixtape of good songs for a good person who brought me back down to earth._

 

And on the side of the cassette where the title should be, scrawled out is just the words “thank you.”

Steve clutches the cassette to his chest, and can’t help the broad, stupid smile that spreads out across his face.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i might just turn this into a series of one-shots we shall see


End file.
